Of Ashes and Rivers that Run to the Sea Read Online Free PDF Page B

pilot broke the chain all those years ago when he flew me away from the Tiwi Islands, so meeting his mother-in-law has now joined the broken link back together. It means only one thing. That I have to go back.
    But now I’m home I haven’t the courage to tell everyone that I’m going back because I know they’ll try to talk me out of it and I know they won’t understand if I tell them about the omen because only weird people do things like that. And even though I’ve made up my mind now and I just want to get it over and done with, I know I have to be sensible and organise things properly. But my head is in a muddle. Which suitcase will I put my fossil collection in? Will my Japanese kimono with the little patch sewn on the arse fit if I take all my Graham Greenes and Lawrence Durrells? How much wine can I squeeze into a suitcase if I leave some of my nail polish behind?
    And with my head full of such things my work at the Health Department starts to languish as I shift paper around on my desk and clean up the staples that have fallen out of their box in my top drawer and try to look busy. A few days later I am grateful for the distraction ofthe Indigenous Health Conference. It is full of the usual wankers talking their customary garbage about improving the health of Indigenous Australians. I watch them throwing responsibility back and forth like a hand grenade that’s about to go off. I think of the clinic on Bathurst Island with the whiteboard in the waiting room that has a list of people on it who need follow-up treatment for syphilis, and the kids with candles of snot streaming down their faces and the dog shit all over the place. I think of the stagnant and stinking grey water sitting in people’s yards and the garbage blowing in the wind. Are we talking about the same Indigenous health here, I wonder?
    I spark up when the conference-goers meet for drinks at the bar afterwards. Apart from relieving the stress of the day it’s a good opportunity to watch the wankers let down their guard while my workmate Johnno and I observe the flirtatious looks and listen to the loosened tongues and make discreet comment. Yes, ‘Boufant Hairdo’ and ‘Bass Baritone’ will definitely fuck each other tonight. Oh, did you hear the bit when ‘Big Arse’ said ‘Small Dick’ didn’t know what he was talking about, like she’d know anything!
    At seven o’clock we drift into the restaurant. The food is divine. Johnno is next to me at the end of the table in his wheelchair and is an extroverted bundle of energy. He is also a bit of a wine connoisseur and along with his running commentary on Australian wines and the footy scores, keeps topping up our glasses. I don’t complain.
    â€˜How do you drive your wheelchair when you get drunk?’ I ask him. He laughs and just keeps pouring. I know we’re getting really drunk now because the bloke opposite who has beady eyes like a crab and a mouth like a cat’s arse is starting to look real good and I’m feeling the best I’ve felt in the two weeks since I came back.
    â€˜How was your trip up north?’ Johnno segues from our conversation about New Zealand wines, which instantly wipes the grin off my face. My stomach starts to churn and then gurgles like water going down a curly drainpipe and I silently curse him. I take a deep breath to make my guts settle but the gurgling gets worse and I know I’m in trouble. For a split second our eyes make contact and his go wide as he realises I am going to spew. He tries to back away from the table but only manages a forty-five degree turn as his colostomy bag drops onto the floor and he runs over it at precisely the same moment that I deposit my meal neatly into his lap. Within seconds the pong of the flattened colostomy bag permeates the air and the restaurant empties in one gigantic wave with my good mate bringing up the rear in his wheelchair. I hit